


the faults of the hand

by mourn, starlatine



Category: Fallout 4
Genre: Bathing/Washing, M/M, Post-Blind Betrayal, Self-Esteem Issues, grudging acceptance of comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-25
Updated: 2018-11-25
Packaged: 2019-07-28 19:51:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,518
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16248674
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mourn/pseuds/mourn, https://archiveofourown.org/users/starlatine/pseuds/starlatine
Summary: Preston and Danse have to take sudden shelter from a radstorm.





	the faults of the hand

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hobbitdragon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hobbitdragon/gifts).



> CW for Blind-Betrayal-typical indifference to one's own life, plus some flimsy logic w.r.t the Fallout universe and canon-typical misuse of the concept of radiation.

It started like this: he and Preston Garvey were running a wild goose-chase at Nora’s beck and call, and it’d been bad from the start. Preston had never liked him, and likewise, and so things were already tense before they had a close run-in with a Brotherhood vertibird on the way back from the target location, where they had to sift through a veritable forest floor of ghouls in order to get the single spare part she needed for her next crazy machine. They’d found it, after no little amount of sweat and irritable back-and-forthing about strategy, only to be chased out of the building by one of the gooiest glowing ones he’d ever seen straight into a radstorm right out of hell. Danse, of course, had his suit, but Preston’s wide-brim hat and colonial getup wouldn’t do him much good in this kind of weather, and it wasn’t long before Danse realized he had no choice but get them both to shelter, and quick.

Nora kept safe-houses stashed across the Commonwealth, and though Danse was sure that there were many he wasn’t privy to, in this case they were just a few miles due east of one they’d visited together as a pit-stop on an errand they’d run for Proctor Ingram ages ago. Nothing fancy, but there was a door that locked up and some basic supplies, and so when Preston started to sag on his feet, green around the gills with the early onset of rad poisoning, Danse made an executive decision to pick him up and carry him the rest of the way.

Synth or not, he remembered what it was like to be responsible for his men, and though there was no love lost between himself and the Minutemen, letting one of their leaders die on his watch would prove, if only to himself, that Nora should’ve let Arthur serve him his just punishment. 

He still had a suit of power armour, and his muscles hadn’t forgotten the feeling of heavy cavalry drills; he could still cover ground on foot like there was an army of ghouls behind him. It was one thing he supposed he could thank his creators for. He was a workhorse, through and through. 

Preston was mumbling against his chest, and he kept pushing at him, trying to get Danse to let him go, but his eyes were sliding shut, and with the power armour it wasn’t hard for Danse to keep him in his arms until they reached the shack. Once inside, they were greeted with the smell of mildew, dust, and musty cloth, which by wasteland standards was positively fresh. Any absence of rotting flesh or ghoul musk was to be grateful for.

Danse set Preston down on the prewar couch that dominated most of the main room and leaned in close to his face. “Garvey.”

Preston’s body was limp, and his eyelids blinked heavily at Danse, his stare almost void of recognition. “What—where—”

Danse rifled through his supplies, but was distracted by the clicking of the geiger counter in his suit, which was going crazy just from being near Preston. Damn it. He’d tried to hurry, but the radstorm had been a bad one, and—

“Are you conscious?”

Preston opened his mouth, face grave, but instead of saying anything he just lurched over, and Danse did what he did best: acted to protect his team. He plugged him in to a couple Radaway drips and then got to work. 

The rad-bath was something they’d learned how to rig up during training at the Citadel: if they were ever in a position where significant radiation exposure was sustained, you could apply a topical soak of diluted Radaway while you waited for the intravenous stuff to kick in. There was still a bathtub left over from the prewar days, though obviously the plumbing hadn’t worked in a long, long time. Nora had stored buckets of mostly non-irradiated rainwater on the floor here and there, and Danse moved quickly to empty some of them into the tub and then tore open the rest of the Radaway packets he had on hand and dumped their contents inside.

After that, there was nothing left but to move Preston into the tub. The simplest and the hardest part of the whole thing. Danse briskly divested the man of his Minuteman uniform and lifted him into the tub with no little exertion, now that he was out of his power armour, and kept an eye on Preston’s face, trying to ensure he wouldn’t gag or choke. His skin was clammy, and his usually bright and intelligent eyes were hazy, blinking past Danse as if they didn’t see him at all.

Taking care of a soldier—this was something he understood. A duty more ingrained in him than any programming. Nonetheless, Danse’s hands shook as he checked the IV drips of the remaining packets of Radaway. He couldn’t afford to lose anyone, not anymore.

After his departure from the Brotherhood and Nora’s altercation with Arthur, everything changed, but in a way that took a while to register. The two of them had spent most of the last few months on foot together, roaming around the Commonwealth engaging in hairbrained schemes to liberate some villager or other, and it took some time for Danse to realize on any more than an intellectual level that he wouldn’t be returning to the Prydwen at the end of the mission. He’d gotten to know her motley crew of associates in the time since she’d first strode into his life through the fray at the Cambridge police station. Ever since the truth about him had come out, he’d had to see even more of them than he’d ever have preferred to, but he was in no position to be choosy about his company, and after Nora flexed her leadership muscles frequently and loudly enough the rest of the Minutemen finally agreed to put him up in Sanctuary in exchange for his putting his power armour to use for them. He couldn’t do much but agree: after all, where else was he supposed to go?

What this agreement meant, however, was extended time spent with a man he’d made no attempt to endear himself to before this, and who had no more reason to like or trust him now. 

The time crawled by. Out of his power armour, he couldn’t check the HUD’s timepiece, and the windows of the shack were boarded up. He kept an eye on Preston, who looked like he was slipping in and out of consciousness, and imagined contingencies. What would he say to Nora, if Preston didn’t make it through the night? Would she believe that he’d tried his best, and to no avail, or would this be the last straw before her group of philanthropists turned him back to the tender mercies of Arthur, or, god, the Institute?

It would hardly be the first time he’d failed so miserably. There had been more than just himself, Knight Rhys and Scribe Haylen when they arrived in the Commonwealth. He’d tried, and yet— 

His train of thought was interrupted by the quiet splashing of water against ceramic. He glanced over to see Preston running a hand down his face and blinking blearily, and Danse coughed. Before he could remember it was an inappropriate thing to say to his equal—if anything, his superior, now—Danse barked, “Your status, soldier?”

Preston’s eyes flew open, then, and he glanced around him, clearly trying to take stock of the situation, but he visibly relaxed when he saw the Radaway drips hooked in to his arm. He shot Danse a glance full of meaning. “You don’t need to do this for me. I would’ve been fine.”

“My geiger counter was going crazy just looking at you. The radiation would’ve rotted you through if I hadn’t, and Nora needs you.” Unsaid: _you’re the only other one who vouched me, out of all of them. I owe you._ “This is a tactical necessity.”

Preston laughed, though his condition was so rough it came out sounding like the death rattle of a rusty engine. “I’m glad one of us can still think about tactics.”

“Just trying to keep my head, to be honest.”

“I get it. I’ve been there, Danse.” Preston’s face was gaunt, eyes puffy with exhaustion, but his gaze was steady, lucid, and it lingered on Danse’s face for long moments before looking away. Almost long enough for him to think—but no. Preston had no love for the Brotherhood, no special feeling for synths, and this was no time to be thinking about anything but making it through the night. Danse really was pathetic, looking for signs of attraction from the handful of people who could still bear to look at him.

“You look like you’ve been through the wringer yourself.”

Danse blinked. “Oh. Just tired. I couldn’t sleep until I knew you were going to pull through.”

“I have to say, I’m flattered by the concern.”

“I don’t think I could expect much of a warm welcome back at Sanctuary if I failed to keep the face of the Minutemen alive through a radstorm.”

Preston coughed, but his gaze on Danse remained steady, almost curious. “Danse... I don’t know if you’ll believe it, but we all like you better now that we know about you.”

Danse hung his head. “Who knows?”

“Just her closest friends. Come on, Danse, you know her better than that.” Preston rubbed the back of hand against his face. The water drip, dripped against the side of the tub.. “Hell, after finding out about you, I spent a couple sleepless nights thinking about myself. It got bad enough I had to get Nora to look through those files we got back from the Institute, but—no.” 

“I’m glad you were able to get the answer you wanted,” said Danse, not making much of an effort to keep the bitterness from his voice, and Preston sighed.

“Sorry. Didn’t mean to sound like I was gloating. Just—no one would’ve known, from the way you were. If _you_ could be one, then… it makes a guy think about himself.” He tilted his head just enough to look across at Danse. “I’m probably talking a lot of nonsense. Radaway can do that to you, sometimes. Makes you all floaty.”

“No, I’m reading you loud and clear, soldier.”

He laughed, again, that awful sound scraping its way out of his throat. “That’s where you’re wrong, Danse. The Minutemen aren’t soldiers. We’re militiamen.”

“I was just trying to make you feel better. Times like this, I think I start to…” He couldn’t quite finish his words. His mouth felt oddly dry.

“...Treat me like one of your men?”

He nodded.

The corner of Preston’s mouth quirked in something akin to a smile, but mirthless. “Yeah, I get that. And… thanks. For the thought.” He lifted a hand and gestured around himself. “And the bath. Never would’ve thought of doing something like this.”

“The intake of the drug is quicker through the skin.”

“And here I thought you were just trying to get me out of my clothes,” Preston murmured, and though Danse wasn’t much of a comedian it didn’t sound like much of a joke. His brows flew up his face. Preston had turned aside, slightly, like he was bashful, which—

“That said, while I appreciate the quick thinking, Danse, I don’t usually make a point of taking extended cold soaks in this kind of weather.”

“Oh.” Danse shook his head, trying to dislodge his thoughts from the gutter. “Of course. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it. Just pass me my clothes, would you? I think I’ve gotten all I’m going to out of this, and I don’t feel like I just crawled out of a Deathclaw nest anymore, which is something.”

Preston’s gaze was clear now, absolutely lucid, and when Danse helped him stand up and get out of the tub he could’ve sworn their hands brushed against each other for longer than necessary. He bent to pick up Preston’s clothes, and handed them to him while keeping his eyes resolutely on the man’s face, and then shuffled off to the corner to let him change in some semblance of privacy. He could hear a raspy chuckle come out of Preston’s throat. 

Danse was used to the sight of the naked body; he was a life-long soldier. It was just this, now, that was getting to him for reasons he didn’t understand. He heard cloth rustling and water dripping to the floor, and he tried not to let on just how much he was affected by—what? The proximity? The odd tenderness in Preston’s voice when he spoke to him? He didn’t turn back around until he felt a hand on his shoulder, and when he started, Preston removed it as if burned. Danse turned, and Preston was standing, in coat and all, looking worse for wear but resolutely alive. 

Preston bit his lip, and hesitated for a moment before he said, “It sounds like it’s still storming out there, so we might be stuck here for a while.”

“Ah,” replied Danse, intelligently.

“You should take the couch. You look worn to the bone.”

“Absolutely not, Garvey. Your condition is still precarious.”

“You can’t order me around, Danse,” replied Preston, and there was steel in his tone.

Danse let in a heavy breath that felt like it took physical effort, and then released it. “You’re right. And I’m sorry. But I really think—”

“Come on, Danse. We’ll both take it, alright? I don’t think either of us are going to budge, and if we stand around like this all night neither of us will be good for much tomorrow.”

Danse had never been more glad for the dimness of the shack’s meagre lighting, so Preston couldn’t see the flush that crept up his neck. “I suppose I can’t argue with that.”

In truth, there wasn’t enough room. They lay back to chest, springs pressing into them through their clothes, and the sound of dirty rain on the tin roof above them was enough to drown out even the sounds of their breathing. It was funny; he hadn’t really realized how tired he was until he’d lowered himself into a horizontal position. Even so, being so close to Preston was doing something to him. The past however-many hours felt like they were a lucid dream he was still living through. Maybe that was why, when he felt one of Preston’s damp hands reach for his own and pull it around to his chest, he was finally able to stop himself from feeling anything besides simple contentment at the feeling of skin against skin. It was night, and there was no one to see them, here, no one to judge what comfort soldiers—or close enough—took with each other in the dark.

And if he woke with his forehead pressed against the nape of Preston’s neck, some voice in the back of his head whispered to him Preston wouldn’t tell.


End file.
